When the worst happens | Association of Anaesthetists

When the worst happens

When the worst happens

My training had been pretty unremarkable until that point. Sitting in a ‘return to work’ meeting with one of the senior members of the School of Anaesthesia, she remarked at how strange it was that we had never had reason to meet before.

I had been on maternity leave following the birth of my second child, Griff. Sitting on the beach on 21 June 2014, I remember looking out to sea and thinking how content I was. My 4-year old daughter splashed about paddling, and Griff sat running his toes through the sand.

A week later, I left him for the first time overnight and went to visit a friend. I kissed both little ones goodbye at the train station, and headed off for the first couple of drinks out I’d had in months.

I woke up surprisingly early the following morning and looked at my phone. I had scores of missed calls. When I finally got through to someone it was my Mum. It was her birthday: “Griff is in hospital”. My first thought was not to panic; he had been completely fine the night before. It quickly dawned on me that if he was well 10 hours previously, this was serious.

I spoke to his PICU consultant and I was calm. It’s amazing what being an anaesthetist does for you when you need to keep a cool head. Griff had been found between the bars of the bed and the mattress. He had been resuscitated by a team which included my friends. She told me what I already knew “I think he is going to die”.

The next few hours are a bit of a blur. I know I was wearing a duck shower cap when the police arrived. I know I went from police van, to car, to car in order to blue light me back to Wales. I remember the comforting familiar accent of the officer from South Wales Police.

We withdrew organ support the following morning and Griff died a few minutes later. He was eight months old.

The journey from that day to this has been, well, an interesting one. You may be surprised to hear that it hasn’t been all sad. I mean, some of it has been dreadful. However, the experience I have had ‘on the other side’ has in many ways enriched my appreciation of life, love and my role as a medic.

So why write this article? It certainly isn’t to make you feel low, or because I want you to feel sorry for me. Everyone’s experience of loss is very different. I can only speak for myself, but I hope that by sharing a few things I have learned it might be helpful for someone struggling, whatever the reason.

Griff, the author's son

  • People do strange things

I’ve learned that the reactions I have encountered are not borne of malice, but because people don’t know what on earth to say. Some have ignored me completely. Some have burst into tears. Some have said things like "Well, you can’t take your eyes off kids". But none of those people meant to hurt me. It’s just really bloody awkward for them.

  • The hardest things may be unexpected

Of course I was going to struggle with paediatric resus – who doesn’t? - but obstetrics would be fine, right? Stepping into the labour ward for the first time was suffocating and it completely blindsided me. The joy, expectation and heartbreak all wrapped up in those four walls. At times the hurdle seemed insurmountable, but the rawness eased and I’m back to disliking obstetrics for the same reasons as anyone else!

  • Anticipation is often worse than reality

I was terrified about my first paediatric arrest call. When it came, I wanted to do my best for that family, and I did. That’s not to say that if I hadn’t coped I would have somehow failed, but sometimes we surprise ourselves with what we can do.

  • Progress is not a straight trajectory

It is comforting for observers to see you gaining confidence day by day. The truth is some days one will be flying, and the next swimming uphill in a river of custard again. Accepting the ups and downs has helped.

  • It’s a marathon, not a sprint

A life event that shakes you to your very core is going to affect you for a long time. I naively thought that I could go straight into ‘work mode’ and be fine. My Trainee Programme Director suggested that a gentler return would be a good idea - she was right. I’m still working on myself every day, and I can’t see that process ending any time soon. Don’t push yourself too hard too fast.

  • Personal experience can make us better doctors

Being ‘on the other side’ has given me an appreciation that no course or tutorial could teach. I have tried to use my experience to be a better communicator, and to really listen to patients and relatives. And offer them a cup of tea.

  • Don’t sweat the small stuff

These days I couldn’t give a monkey’s about the little things that used to grind my gears. It’s actually quite liberating. It’s not that those things aren’t important anymore, but in the grand scheme of things is there any point being stressed about them?

  • Be kind to yourself

My anxiety has a propensity to run wild if I don’t look after my mental health. I’ve not suddenly started going on yoga retreats – if that’s for you that’s brilliant, but it isn’t for me. But I have started taking an occasional day off to go shopping. Self care can be difficult. It’s easy to feel I don’t deserve it, as my son doesn’t get to enjoy life. But looking after myself isn’t disrespecting him, it’s keeping me afloat.

  • There are wonderful people in the world

The kindness of others never ceases to amaze me. To anyone who dropped off a hot meal, ran with me for charity or posted me a gin and tonic in a can (!), thank you. Accepting help can be really hard, but it can pull you through the darkest days.

  • There can be positives even in the worst of times

Griff’s death changed my whole world. But his life brought so many things that I am grateful for. He taught me how to appreciate what I have, and to not take tomorrow for granted. I’m so proud of all he achieved in his short life. He brought us so many smiles, and even after his death he has been an inspiration: we donated his heart valves; money was raised for PICU in his name; and for three Christmases we collected ‘Griff’s Gifts’ for charity. His sisters know what an amazing little man he was, as they are amazing little women. We go forward as a family of five, it just that you can only see four of us.

'Griff’s Gifts’ for charity

'Griff' on a Christmas ornament

Natalie Mincher
Locum Consultant Anaesthetist
Royal Gwent Hospital, Newport

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